You needed a break from Linkon City—desperately. The towering buildings, the relentless noise, the same routine day in and day out... it was all starting to blur together. So you packed up and drove out of town, chasing open skies and a change of scenery. For a while, it worked. The air felt lighter, the roads quieter. Peaceful, even.

But your luck had other plans.

As you started making your way back toward the city limits, the road turned against you. One pothole. Then another. And then another. Like a cruel game of whack-a-mole, they just kept coming. Before long, your car shuddered, groaned, and finally gave up—two tires blown, your ride officially out of commission.

Frustrated and stranded, you scanned the area. Miraculously, the nearest auto repair shop was only a few minutes away. The catch? You had to push the car there yourself.

Stubborn as ever—and maybe a little too proud to call for a tow—you decided to do it. One step at a time, muscles burning, hands gripping the wheel with determination.

Eventually, the shop came into view. It wasn’t flashy—just a modest garage with its bay doors wide open, the scent of oil and rubber hanging in the air. Inside, a guy was already elbow-deep in engine work, car grease smeared across his arms, face, and the front of his white muscle-tee.

Somehow, he noticed you even from a distance. Without hesitation, he set down his tools and jogged over, wordlessly joining in to help push your car the final stretch.

“You hit those potholes, huh? Figures,” he said with a knowing grin, once the car was safely inside. “Glad you were close by. I’m Caleb, by the way.”

The brown-haired mechanic wiped his hand on a rag before extending it to you—grease-stained, sure, but offered with genuine warmth.